


Scared Scarred Sacred

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannigram Does Romance, Knifeplay, M/M, Past Violence, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Scarification, Valentine's Day, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I cannot…” Hannibal says, voice thick, and there’s a clatter. </p><p>Will sits up on the bed. A moment ago he was quite relaxed - or at least as much as anyone could be, under the circumstances - but now with Hannibal’s hesitance a sweet tension has come to coil in his belly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scared Scarred Sacred

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes** :For the prompt: ' _Things you said when you were scared_ ' Cleaned up and edited from the tumblr post. 
> 
> **Warnings** : This is Hannibal and Will spending a Valentine's Day being co-dependant and somewhat threatening and Really Into It And Each Other. I can't quite figure out how better to warn. If you'd like details or want to ask a question before reading, please do.

“I cannot…” Hannibal says, voice thick, and there’s a clatter. 

 

Will sits up on the bed. A moment ago he was quite relaxed - or at least as much as anyone could be, under the circumstances - but now with Hannibal’s hesitance a sweet tension has come to coil in his belly. 

 

They can both see Will’s cock twitch with his pleasure.  

 

Will is naked, entirely. His skin is damp with scented oil, which Hannibal had earlier worked into him, into each fold and millimetre of skin, into every cell and every sinew, an exhaustive, breathless effort. Will lay out over this bed like a strap of leather to be worked, and Hannibal knew his craft well. 

 

There had towels over the bed when Will first came to the room, and not just for the oil, and that was exactly as he’d expected – Hannibal is leading this dance, but only ceremonially; they worked all this out together, one long shared fantasy created over consecutive nights as they planned for today. 

 

The Feast Day of St Valentine. A tradition which is a series of lies and half-truths, so Will had learnt from Hannibal, beginning with a saint too obscure for history, continuing through the imagination of Geoffrey Chaucer and finally spun into a confection of sentiment and false tradition by the Victorians, as so much else. 

 

“But,” Will had said, as they argued the point, murmuring into Hannibal’s throat, his fingers working fast and sure between Hannibal’s legs, making him twist and gasp and go pliant, “you sent me an origami heart made of a human being, sweetheart, this holiday was made for you.”

 

(‘Sweetheart’ makes Hannibal whimper, cows him better than an aria, better than anything, and Will uses it casually and carefully, to wield it the more strongly.)

 

And Will had won that discussion, in the end, and so there was indeed to be something special for them for Valentine’s Day, and then all that was left was to work out what that might be - besides the meal and the flowers and the candles, which were taken as read and indeed are all downstairs, now, eaten and wilting and guttering by turns. 

 

 _This too will pass_ , Will thinks now, watching Hannibal’s hands turning with an alien, unsuited helplessness in the too-wide gap between them. Hannibal’s hands that have never faltered from a task, but now _cannot_ …

 

Hannibal still has his suit trousers on but has taken off his jacket. His waistcoat is blue silk to match the rest, and his shirt a darker blue, and with the sleeves rolled up. His tie is gone, over the other side of the bedroom, and his throat is decorated in purple bruises instead, which apart from anything else do not disrupt the colour scheme. 

 

“I know you can,” Will says, and moves further forward, so that he is sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging down towards the floor, one splayed round behind Hannibal’s back; Will’s hard, eager, red (not matching the colour scheme) cock nudges at Hannibal’s hip, smearing the silk wetly, and Hannibal winces. 

 

“I know you can,” Will repeats, and takes one of Hannibal’s hands in his and makes for him the journey of his fingertips round their old familiar trail; the smile across Will’s stomach, the thin line over his scalp and the hole in the side of his face. 

 

Hannibal reaches for this points, always, like a pilgrim to the stations of the cross.

 

Another long silence. Hannibal swallows - a dry click, throat working - and his breathing is shallow. He doesn’t want to speak, clearly, but they both know Will won’t leave it alone. 

 

There’s a knife on the floor, of course. One way to end a conversation. 

 

But Will isn’t the person in the room who’s scared.

 

“You did not trust me, then.” Hannibal says at last. “Not for those.”

 

Will leans over, bent double as he stays sitting, and picks up the knife with a grunt. It’s a jewelled dagger, of some fussy and important provenance, which they found together, in the planning of this, and which Hannibal watched Will sharpen yesterday, as they sat together on the porch and drank whiskey, watching the dogs playing in the snow in the red light of sunset. Hannibal cooked fish with a black butter, and pudding was a simple fruit salad, to better prepare for the chocolate fondant he created for today. 

 

Will is entirely in love with Hannibal Lecter, and sometimes it strikes him sideways as a blunt instrument, and sometimes it cuts and sometimes it pierces, but he knows above all that it can’t be cured, and perhaps that’s where the trust comes from, in the end. 

 

 _Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change_ \- it is serenity, this knowledge, this love; the sweetest peace he’d never known before in life. 

 

“When you do it,” Will says, offering the knife handle-first, choosing his words with careful intent. “When you do it, it will be because I want you to. Because I trust you. Because my body is yours and you are mine and you will do what I want you to.”

 

Hannibal looks at him, and it looks convincingly like hatred. 

 

“I am nervous,” Hannibal says. Disgusted. Bemused. 

 

Embarrassed, probably. 

 

Will gets back in close to him, rubbing up, cock stiffening even further. There are trails smeared on Hannibal’s trousers.

 

“Sweetheart,” Will murmurs. “Please.”

 

“And what…” Hannibal swallows again. “What if I forget, when I start, how not to cut you? How to stop breaking into you? How to bear the way I feel when you are alive and near me?”

 

Will bites his lip. He puts his arms round Hannibal’s shoulders and holds him a while, warm, and now there is semen and massage oil and sweat and a few tears ruining Hannibal’s tailoring. 

 

Beginning with gently undoing the waistcoat buttons, Will helps Hannibal get the clothes off. That helps, it seems. Hannibal is hard too, and they could segue into their usual couplings and leave this for next year. 

 

But this is a fight, cast in amber, slow falling as pitch, and Will intends to triumph. 

 

Rather than speak again, he holds out his arm. 

 

In a second’s movement, Hannibal surges up and gets over him, throws him down on the bed, looms above and holds him. 

 

“I’d trust you even as I watched you cut my heart from my chest,” Will argues. “I mean, you might as well, really. My life as it was is over. There’s only you.”

 

Hannibal snarls, and finally moves, slicing open Will’s palm and then his own, and pushing their hands together, lips of the cuts brushing and kissing and sore, blood mingling and smearing and staining between them as they tighten their grip on each other. 

 

Will lifts his neck, wanting a kiss, and Hannibal meets him there too. 

 

They roll into one body together, a beast with two backs, and they’re both shaking. 


End file.
